


some nights are for more

by femme_ecrivain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Minister for Magic Hermione Granger, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Canon, Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Smut, degradation kink, kind of, not-actually infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme_ecrivain/pseuds/femme_ecrivain
Summary: By day she’s driven, serious, hardworking, and most nights she is as well. There are children to care for, after all, and a husband to love. She does love him, all of them, as they love her. It’s a happy life and she’s happy in it.But some nights… some nights she needsmore.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 237





	some nights are for more

She puts the glamour on long before she enters the pub. It’s a Muggle pub in a quiet neighbourhood but still she’s taking no chances. As the Minister for Magic, it’s simply not worth the risk. 

By day she’s driven, serious, hardworking, and most nights she is as well. There are children to care for, after all, and a husband to love. She does love him, all of them, as they love her. It’s a happy life and she’s happy in it. 

But some nights… some nights she needs more. 

The late August breeze is warm on her skin as she smooths her slinky dress and checks her charms one final time, then pushes open the door. The moment she’s through it, she spots him. He stands out in a crowd, always has, and of course _he_ never bothers with a glamour. He sneers if she so much as suggests one. 

“Me, on my own in a Muggle pub?” he taunts. “Even if anyone did see, who would believe it?” 

It’s hard, even for her, to argue with that logic.

Her own glamour charms are near to perfect, subtle but convincing, less hassle than Polyjuice and far less problematic. She does them differently each time—partly out of caution, but mostly to test him. He never fails. He always knows. 

“I could pick you out of any crowd, no matter what you looked like,” he murmured, once, low against her skin. “There’s always something there that’s still _you_. Still _mine_.” 

She shivers. 

He stands straight when he sees her, grey eyes flashing as he takes in her disguise. She puts a swing in her hips as she saunters to the bar, purses her lips and catches a hint of a smile on his as she bats her lashes at the barman and orders a dirty martini. 

“Well well,” he drawls a moment later, appearing at her elbow, looming over her with his height and his shoulders. “What’s a _dirty_ girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She sips her drink and looks up at him over the edge of its rim. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

His smile is predatory. “Indeed I would.” 

-

He takes his time, easing closer as they sip their drinks, teasing her with almost-touches—his trouser leg against her thigh, his sleeve across her arm. Her skin tingles with each one; her head swims as his breath ghosts across her cheek, smelling of mint and whisky. He shifts closer still. His fingertips brush the bare skin of her back, the briefest touch, but she gasps as her thighs clench _hard_. 

He notices. 

“And where is your husband this fine evening?” he demands in a low voice in her ear, rough as sandpaper. His exhale ruffles the fine hairs at her temple. She shifts in her seat. 

“I’m not married.” Her own voice is breathy. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Aren’t you?” 

She meets his gaze. “Not tonight.” 

-

He buys her second drink and then her third. “My treat now,” he says. “Yours later.” His meaning could not be clearer. 

Deep inside her voices scream in protest. _Sex is not a transaction. You owe him nothing_. She hardly hears them over the rush of blood in her veins, the pounding of her heart. 

She’s barely tasted drink number four when he brushes her hair back over her shoulder, traces the line of her neck with his fingertips. His touch is feather-light but it ignites a fire in her and she’s had more than enough of his games. She knocks his hand away and stands, tosses her hair back where it was and stalks away, knowing he will follow. 

She heads to the back, to the quiet corridor and the loos with single-stalls and doors that deadbolt lock. 

The choice of this pub was not an accident. 

The door has barely shut behind them when he is on her, his mouth on her neck and his hand on her thigh, flexing on the soft skin then trailing up—up beneath her short skirt to where she is hot and aching, dripping wet, without so much as a scrap of lace to block the path of his questing fingers. 

He hisses as he strokes her, primal satisfaction in the sound. “All this for a hookup in a pub?” he purrs, teasing her entrance and whispering across her clit as she moans and writhes in a desperate attempt to get closer. “ _Dirty_ girl.” 

She casts a wandless _Silencio_ just in time, before his fingers press inside her and she wails, head thrown back, clawing at his forearm as she gasps out a plea. 

“Harder,” she begs him. “ _More_.” 

He growls and spins them around, presses her against the door as he thrusts his fingers deep. Three of them, and his thumb working her clit. She’s on her toes, back arched, thighs clenching around his hand and his lips are on her neck again, biting and sucking and whispering filth in her ear. 

“What would your junior minsters think if they could see you now, hmm? Finger fucked in a pub toilet for the price of three drinks? By a man who’s seen the wrong side of Azkaban and bears the scars to prove it?” 

She keens as he taunts her, and the edges of her vision go grey. 

“What would they think if they knew how much you _love_ it?”

His fingers slam in deep, his thumbnail flicks her clit and then she _comes_ , too hard to make a sound, trembling in his grip as the air is sucked from her lungs. He holds her upright as she convulses and then goes limp, fingers still working within her, riding out alongside her those last waves of pleasure. When she finally stills he pulls his fingers from her body but keeps his hand between her legs, firm against her tender flesh as he draws down the zip of her dress. With his tongue he traces the ridges of her spine, along the narrow strip of skin exposed by the zip, and all too soon she’s gasping again—ridiculously soon—hips thrusting helplessly against his hand, ready for more. 

“Please,” she whimpers. 

“Please what?” He pulls his hands away and tugs the dress down. It pools on the floor, leaving her naked and exposed in nothing but her heels and thigh-high stockings held up by magic. 

He, the bastard, remains fully dressed. 

She glances at him over her shoulder then turns around, shivering at the cool way his eyes roam down her body—over the rise of her breasts, down the dip of her waist, up the curve of her hips. 

“Please what?” he repeats, sharply. “Tell me.” 

“Please…” 

“ _Tell_ me. Tell me or I leave now.” 

There’s no lie in his face and none in his voice; only the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the thick bulge in his trousers stand in contradiction of them. His eyes narrow. 

“Please… fuck me.” 

He’s on her in an instant, hands flat on the door behind her, arms and chest caging her in. His breath is hot on her lips as he snarls “You want to be fucked, here, against this door of this toilet in this third-rate Muggle pub?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“ _Filthy_ girl. Tell me how you want it.” 

“H-hard.” 

“Naturally.” 

“Rough.” She swallows hard. “ _Deep_.” 

His eyes are black now as he stares at her, his voice a harsh whisper when he speaks. “You know what _I_ want.” 

“No—” 

“Yes.” 

“Please.” 

“Do it. Now.” He thrusts his hand between her legs again, the heel of his hand pressed hard against her clit. She gasps and he growls. “ _Now_.” 

She lets her glamours fall away, lets the wild, dark curls of her hair spring up from sleek auburn and the green of her eyes deepen into whisky-gold. His breath catches in his throat and his hand sinks into her hair, grips it hard and tugs her head back as he undoes his trousers. His cock springs free and she grasps it, catches his moan in her mouth as he kisses her, as deep and rough and hard as she wants to be fucked. 

“Sweet bloody Circe,” he hisses and then he’s inside her, thrusting deep and wringing a choked groan from deep in her chest. He hoists her up and she wraps her legs tight around him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, gouging his skin through the shirt he’s still wearing. His breathing is harsh and his eyes wild, and when he kisses her again, sloppy and wet, she knows he’s lost control. 

He groans against her lips, mumbles broken words and garbled sounds as he fucks her. Her thighs tremble with exertion, the door rattles in its frame, her lungs fight for air and her mind is blank, _blissful_ , lost completely to pleasure—to the drag of his cock deep within her, to the desperate grip of his fingers on her hip and in her hair. 

He buries his face in her neck as the pace of his thrusts begins to falter. “‘Mione, I can’t—” he gasps “I need—come _now_ —please—” 

One thrust, two, three, and then she’s falling, screaming as he shudders and groans and sucks hard on her neck. He’ll surely leave a bruise there she has to glamour for weeks but she doesn’t care, it’s more than worth it. She thinks about the way his eyes flash when he sees the marks he leaves on her, the smug, possessive gleam that she should hate but doesn’t. 

She smiles. 

He lifts his head and presses a kiss to her temple as she unhooks her legs from around his waist and attempts to stand. Her legs are weak and wobbly and he chuckles darkly when she teeters. She retrieves her dress from the floor while he tucks himself back into his trousers and watches her with a satisfied smirk. 

“Well. I guess I’ll see you around, then, Granger,” he drawls. 

“Guess so.” She smirks back, still naked, dress draped over her forearm and one hand on her hip. He unlocks the door and turns the handle. 

“Oh, and Malfoy?” 

He turns back. “Yes?” 

“Be sure Scorp finishes his Transfiguration essay tonight. If he leaves it till the weekend he’s bound to forget, and the train is first thing Monday morning.” 

“Of course.” 

“And no ice cream for Lyra unless she eats all her dinner.” 

Hand still on the doorknob, he leans over and kisses her lips, soft and sweet and lingering. “I’ll leave that one to you, my love,” he murmurs. 

“Fair.” She brushes his nose with hers. “See you at home.” 

He steps back and his gaze rakes over her, smugly possessive and _adoring_. “See you at home,” he says. 


End file.
